


i'll fall with your knife: 3 months later.

by HarkerX



Series: The Yellow Notebook [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha/Omega, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood, Butt Plugs, Cutting, Daddy Dom Hannibal Lecter, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Not Canon Compliant, Omega Will Graham, Phone Sex, References to Knotting, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will's Yellow Notebook, character cameos, no murder on the menu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-03 00:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarkerX/pseuds/HarkerX
Summary: Will pulls a narrow wool blanket from the bed. “You’re kicking me out?”Hannibal waits two breaths. “If you think of yourself as nothing but a dog, you can sleep on the floor at the foot of my bed.”Will hugs the bedding to his chest. “I don’t want to sleep on the floor.”“The dog sleeps on the floor.”





	i'll fall with your knife: 3 months later.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m considering this world they are in as canon-adjacent, so characters will show up, but not in the way they do in Canon-Hannibal. This is clearly a bit AU, but still borders on regular Hannibal.
> 
> This series is relationship based and there's not a lot of plot going on. 
> 
> The daddy kink (daddy dom) thing may show up intermittently, but isn't the driving factor in their relationship.
> 
> thank you again for reading :) 
> 
> I tried to make it so each of the pieces could be read independently and I hope I succeeded, however all are part of the Yellow Notebook series and happen "in order" so reading earlier parts may provide additional context, if that's your thing :) 
> 
> -hX
> 
> (This series takes place after s3 so may contain spoilerish things!)

Will rolls over, sliding his hand over the muscular lines of Hannibal’s chest. Pets him in a drag of fingers through course, greying hair. Hannibal’s age, the years he has on Will make Will feel small, sometimes. Young. A boy, yearning for approval.

Hannibal murmurs, covering Will’s hand with his own.

Will does not live here but in some way he has moved in. They each have their own space and they come together when needs meet want and when desire meets biology and Hannibal’s rut has yet to find its rhythm with Will’s heat and sometimes they move around each other like wolves.

It is an ache, deep in Will’s chest. A sense of being _wrong_ , the way he felt wrong when he first came here begging for Hannibal’s help and how Hannibal stood by as Will worked through his first heat in so many years. The way Will dangled a hook, hate or lust and now both of them are pierced and bloody from its sharp.

Sometimes they talk. They sit in leather and metal and Hannibal doesn’t make notes anymore but the man remembers everything and Will…

Will holds onto the arms of his chair as if holding himself still. 

There is this: the separation of desire and the needs of Will’s Omega, and the place where they meet is a brand, a mark, a cut of teeth and scar. His Alpha knows his blood but it is not the same. They play fight, they fuck. Even mounted, they do not mate.

“You are murky today,” Hannibal says. “Whatever you are carrying is a weight upon my body.”

“It’s just my—”As he turns and presses a kiss to the man’s chest and rolls closer, and maybe he’s in a mood, but his cock is hard anyway because Hannibal. Sex is a convenient distraction when Will doesn’t want to speak.

“I have to work,” Hannibal says, sliding his right hand down, a light stroke over sensitive skin.

“I think we’ve established I only need five to seven minutes,” Will laughs, and he’s happy to change the subject and later he will put a note in his little yellow book and try not to berate himself for being unable to mate with his Alpha.

“Next time I choose an Omega, I’m going for younger,” Hannibal muses. “Someone with some stamina.”

Will pretends the words don’t hurt. “A conundrum.” Will mumbles into Hannibal’s skin. “You find me both too horny and too easily satisfied.”

Will, like Hannibal, has nothing but wanderlust, a need to expand. Change. Become.

“I wish I had known this before you left your heat all over my house,” Hannibal says, but then his hand is around Will’s cock. He squeezes. Runs a thumb over the slit, the wetness there.

“Before I destroyed your bedding?”

“Hrmm,” Hannibal says, with a stroke of his hand. “I had to replace a number of my sexual aids.”

“Aids,” Will says, wiggling his hips. “You make me sound impotent.”

“Just yesterday we had to scrub an embarrassingly large volume of semen out from between the floorboards, I would hardly consider that _impotent_.”

Will shifts, rocking into Hannibal’s hand. “You shouldn’t have mounted me in the hallway.”

“You shouldn’t walk around my house in a state of undress.”

“Are you finding me irresistible, Dr. Lecter?”

“I am finding you insolent, Mr. Graham.”

At that, Will laughs, digs his elbow into the bedding and rolls on top of his Alpha.

“You now have four minutes,” Hannibal reminds him.

“It’s enough,” Will says.

#

The machine Hannibal uses to make coffee might double as a kitchen witches’ cauldron, a scientist’s experiment similar to the one Dr. Frankenstein used to make his monster. A mess of turning twisted glass and metal. Back in Wolf Trap, Will’s coffee maker has a carafe and a filter and a timer set for 7am. Sometimes the coffee ends up burned, undrinkable, but it’s all right with enough milk and sugar.

Hannibal only serves black coffee in very specific cups.

Hannibal does not drink coffee when he is in Wolf Trap, which is rarely, because Hannibal is a man of comforts and needs and makes complex sartorial decisions on the regular and in Wolf Trap Will has a dresser and a closet and a dozen white t-shirts. Size small. There is also the matter of dogs in Wolf Trap and the way their fur gets caught in wool and stays there.

There is a space in Hannibal’s closet for Will and while Hannibal is dressing, Will pulls a t-shirt over his head. White, but far more expensive than the ones in Wolf Trap.

There’s class today, another discussion of the Chesapeake Ripper, so he finds a long-sleeved good-enough shirt and clean-enough pair of khakis. He pushes his hands through the dark curl of his hair and that is the effort he expends on his appearance.

When Hannibal finally comes downstairs, suit and vest and tie and shoes that click on the floor, Will is already sitting on a kitchen stool, ankles tucked beneath the metal bars, making his way through a half-eaten apple.

“Is that enough breakfast?”

Will nods, chews. Swallows. “I’m supposed to meet Alana before first class. At the diner. There’s pancakes at the diner.”

Hannibal’s face twists into something resembling _eew_. “Do you see much of her?”

Will puts the apple core on the island. Not right on the island of course, because the Alpha would have what is nominally known as a _conniption_ if Will put his apple anywhere but on a plate. “Asking because you miss her, or because you’re trying to judge if I still have feelings for her?”

“No. Yes. There is also the matter of Margot.”

“So if you slept with Alana and I slept with Margot, and Alana and Margot are now sleeping together—” Will wiggles his fingers as if counting.

“Are you suggesting that this somehow means I have also slept with Margot?”

“Did you want to?”

Hannibal shakes his head and goes to the fridge. “I have no romantic feelings for Margot.”

“I wasn’t asking about romance, Hannibal. You _supervised_.” Will’s air quotes practically take up the whole room, “While I scrubbed the hardwood, is that how you define a ‘romantic’ feeling?”

“First, you made a mess of my floor. Second, my feelings for you, Will, are complicated and yes, also romantic.”

“Buy me flowers?”

“Will.”

Will laughs and scoops up the apple core, the plate. “You got me off, it makes me chipper”

“Keep talking and I may find a better use for your mouth.”

“You keep making these promises, Dr. Lecter.”

The good Doctor’s words are only half-formed when his breast pocket begins to ring. “Excuse me,” he says, as he steps into the other room, for he is almost always polite.

#

“Should I come by later?” Will leans on the hood of his car. Of course he means here. Hannibal’s house. The orgasm has worn off, and his clothes feel ill-fitting. “I need to check on the dogs, take them out. I’d be late coming back.”

“Yes, but there’s no need to rush,” Hannibal says, one hand on the door of his Bentley. “I imagine you will only be useful for five to seven minutes.”

When they wave goodbye, it occurs to him that Hannibal used the word ‘complicated’.

#

Will’s phone rings at 11:57am. Its buried somewhere in his messenger bag, so its a flurry of notebooks and pens and paperclips and a paperback book he’s been reading going on four months. He digs down, comes across something unexpected, one of Hannibal’s pocket squares, wrapped around a much larger, harder object.

He finds his phone, too, goes to answer with a press of his thumb as he cradles it between his ear and shoulder, fumbling with whatever Hannibal dropped in his bag.

“Apple for teacher?” Will laughs. It’s hollow, for there is still this morning, the ill-fit of his jacket, his usefulness for five minutes and maybe no more.

Maybe he is too complicated.

“Hello, Will.”

All serious. Will puts the package-whatever on his desk and shifts, leaning back, his elbow nudges the small desk lamp and he turns, making sure he doesn’t knock it to the floor. “Are you all right?”

“Of course. You found my gift?”

“It’s wrapped, but yes.”

“How long until your next class?”

Will glances up at the clock. “20.”

“Good, unwrap it.”

Will turns, pulls the object closer, fumbling with the knot with one hand. He pushes silk through silk and the fabric flutters, falls away. “That’s not an apple.”

Hannibal’s laugh is low, soft. “No, but now you’ve given me another idea.”

“Is this for now?” Will taps the silver ball. The familiar, silver, objet d’art. It’s Hannibal’s favourite. Will knows it well. Wears it well, according to the old man.

“You have 20 minutes, yes?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

“Good. Sit in a student’s chair, one of the ones at the top, in the back row. Go now.”

Hannibal doesn’t tell him to bring the butt plug. Will’s not stupid. Because Will isn’t stupid, he also brings the pocket square. He grabs the bag out of habit. Will gets to the top in a rush, in a quickly beating heart, and stands behind one of the student desks, the phone trapped under the tilt of his head. Someone sits here regularly, he’s sure, but he doesn’t remember their name. One of the Alphas, maybe? The blond. The one that asked him out twice for coffee, once on the day Hannibal came to take Will to lunch.

The blond won’t be asking again, he’s sure.

Will puts a hand on the back of the chair. “Are you making a patient wait, Dr. Lecter?”

“That’s my business, Will. You have 17 minutes, I suggest you get started.”

Will checks his bag again. “You didn’t pack lube.”

“Are you suggesting that I am not familiar enough with your body to know when lubricant will be required and when it will only be superfluous?”

Will’s sigh takes up the whole of the classroom. With one hand he works his belt, his pants. It’s true, anyway, Will’s Omega is so in tune with the needs and wants of his Alpha that his body reacts outside of his heat, and his glands swell, and he becomes wet and pathetic for Hannibal when Hannibal so much as asks if he’d like a cup of tea. “No, I’m not.”

“Good,” Hannibal says. “Now prepare yourself for me.”

“Yes Alp—” He starts and then, instead, quietly. “Daddy.”

Hannibal’s swallow is audible, a scrape of scruff over the phone. “I’m waiting.”

 _Daddy_. It’s not their kink, not exactly. Sometimes. Sometimes it’s like this when Hannibal gets in a mood, when he orders, makes demands. When he knows Will is feeling fragile, out of sorts, broken. _Daddy_. It’s one way to heal him.

“I have to put the phone down.” Then he does, and there’s still the open door but the back of the classroom is dark enough and it’s an easy slide of his pants over the curve of his ass and he’s lithe enough and used to this enough that filling himself is easy. Familiar.

“Hannibal.”

“Yes,” Hannibal says. “Sit on the chair. Are you hard?”

Truth is his cock jumps when he so much as sees Hannibal’s name on his call display. “Definitely.”

“Good. Wet?”

Wet enough he hopes the plug will contain the mess. He sits, leans back, rocks himself against the hard, lacquered wood of the chair. The plug moves. It’s Hannibal’s cock. It’s nothing like Hannibal’s cock. “Definitely.”

“Take your cock in your hand, Will.”

“Yes,” Will sighs and he curls fingers around his length, around the heavy, thick weight. A drop of pre-come falls to the floor.

“Yes, what?”

“Daddy.” Will murmurs, leans forward, drops his head to the chair in front, the next row.

“Good boy,” Hannibal murmurs.

“Are you hard?”

There is a moment of complete silence.

“My arousal is none of your business, Omega.”

 

When Hannibal calls him Omega, when Hannibal says it like he’s lesser, two things happen:

1) it pisses him off

2) it gets him off

 

Three days ago he made a note about this in his little yellow notebook. Three days ago he left a stain on one of the pages of his little yellow notebook.

“When you come,” Hannibal orders in a voice like he’s making a grocery list, “mark the chair in front of you. Do not clean it up.”

“I can’t—”

“Don’t argue with me, Will.”

“It’s the classroom.”

“Make a mess for me now or you don’t come for a week. Understood?”

It wouldn’t be the first time Hannibal had controlled his orgasm. He swallows, throat tight. “Yes.”

“Yes what, Will?”

“Yes, Daddy,” he whispers, sliding his thumb over his cock head.

“That’s better. Now, what are you doing?”

What is he doing? A drop of sweat marks the floor, his thigh. He licks his hand, shoves a hand between his legs to wet them with whatever slick has spilled beyond the base of the plug. The air is sex and he grips his cock. “Stroking,” he says. “With my spit and slick.” He rocks, working the plug in his ass until it grinds against his prostate. He groans, angles down, picks up speed. “Fucking myself on you. Riding you.”

On Hannibal. Hannibal doesn’t have to be here to fill him. To fuck him.

“That’s my boy.”

Daddy issues are not the same as Daddy _kink_. This, this dynamic, this mood, is not Hobbs, is not imprinted from when Will presented and Hobbs fucked Will through his first heat. This is power and Hannibal’s fucking Alpha masculinity and the man’s fucking gigantic pain-in-the-ass ego and how Will does what he’s told if it means Hannibal will fuck him. It’s also Hannibal, taking care of what’s his. Protecting his boy, his fragile thing.

Will’s cock throbs, he works the head, squeezing and thrusting into his own hand. “Fuck, _Daddy_.”

“Are you close?”

“Ng, fuck, yes,” Will moans and then he spills over his hand, his come hits the back of the chair, a thick pearling line.

He gasps, squeezes his cock.

“Will.”

“Yes?”

“Take a picture for me.”

A picture?Will swallows and grabs his phone. His hand, the thumbprint that unlocks it is wet with come. He licks himself clean, panting as he wipes it clean on Hannibal’s pocket square. “Trying,” he says, but all he wants to do is curl up or bend over, work the plug in his ass and come again for Hannibal.

For Daddy.

“Try harder,” Hannibal says.

Will fumbles, gets a fuzzy shot of his knees, his pants cut into his thighs and there’s the matter of his come on the furniture. He hits send.

Waits.

Listens.

“Next time I expect the truth,” Hannibal says, and the phone goes dead.

Truth? Truth of what? His come is literally drying on FBI property. Will leans back and closes his eyes. Idly slides a hand under his shirt, stroking his skin.

“Will Graham?”

Shit. Fuck. He shifts forward, tries to pull up his pants one handed. Lifts his ass but it’s not like he can remove the butt plug, so he just manages his stupid fucking pants.

“Mr. Graham?”

“Yes? What?”

He sits back down so fast the chair creaks. A woman stands at the doorway, illuminated by the light of the hallway, her face in shadow. Lithe, narrow. The light picks up the red of her hair. Curly. He doesn’t know her.

“One minute,” he yells down. His fingers are sticky and he stinks of sex and salt and slick, probably.

“Mid-day nap?" Sharp. Accusatory.

“You caught me. Miss?”

“Freddie. Lounds,” she replies. “May I take a seat?”

“Yes,” Will mumbles, waving his hand like flicking away a bumblebee. “Anywhere in the front.”

He hops down the stairs, his messenger bag knocks into his hip and every step shifts the plug inside him and jesus-fucking-christ-Hannibal.

“Are you sick?” Freddie asks.

“What?” As he drops his bag onto the desk.

“You’re flushed.”

Flushed. Of course he is. “You don’t find it warm?”

Freddie peels off a leather glove, folds it over. Removes the second. Gloves. Hannibal needs more leather gloves.

“Not overly, no.” Freddie looks at Will, then up to the place where Will sat, talking with Hannibal. “Was that your father on the phone?”

Will has a fucking heart attack and then, “I, ah called him for his birthday. What do you want Ms. Lounds?”

“I’m doing a book on the Ripper,” she says.

“Everyone’s done a book on the Ripper,” he reminds her. It’s been four years, the money has already been made.

“Then maybe I’ll just do one on you,” she laughs, crossing her legs. “The brilliant behaviourist who belongs to Hannibal Lecter?”

#

“You are not listening,” Will says as he paces through Hannibal’s room. Their room.

“I’m going to have to refinish the floors if you don’t settle down,” Hannibal says.

“She heard me call you Daddy. Literally three minutes after my cock was in my hand. There is come, Hannibal. My come, on the furniture in my classroom. Do you understand who she is, Hannibal?”

Hannibal closes his book. “I am perfectly aware that Freddie Lounds works for Tattlecrime.”

Will turned, doing another loop of the room. “What if she checks for evidence? FBI Instructor arrested for lewd behaviour on Federal Property!?”

“Will.”

It’s not his name but the way Hannibal says it that stops him. “What?”

Hannibal’s hand comes down on the book. “Surely you did not just ‘what’ me?”

He had. Fuck. Will takes a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Better,” he replies. “I highly doubt Freddie Lounds is going to do an expose on a lonely administrator having a private moment in the privacy of his classroom. I’m also certain she does not carry a DNA testing kit in her handbag.”

“I should have closed the door. She said I _belonged_ to you.”

“If I’d have wanted you to close the door, I would have told you to close it,” Hannibal reminds him. “And you do belong to me. Now, lie down or you’ll be spending the night in the hallway.”

“I like the hallway,” Will reminds him. “You fuck me in the hallway.”

Hannibal taps his thumb on the book. “Yes, and I will fuck you in your office, and I will fuck you on the lawn and I will fuck you in your car and I will do as I wish with your body. And when your Daddy wants you to fuck yourself in the last row of seats in your classroom?”

Will swallows, presses his legs together because he feels about sixteen years old and he’s already half hard. “I do what I’m told.”

“Very good.”

“And right now?” Will blinks his impossibly long lashes.

“Right now.” Hannibal pats the space beside him. “Come here.”

Will shifts, rolling in the other man. “She said I was ‘flushed’.”

“Good.”

Will lifts his head. “Good?”

“Yes.”

“How can that be good?”

Hanniballifts his hand, cupping the curve of Will’s jaw, tangling his fingers in his soft curls. “Because it means my boy did as he was told.”

‘Hanni—” Will murmurs, pressing into his Alpha’s hand.

Hannibal squeezes. “Try again.”

“Daddy.” Will whispers and pushes himself against Hannibal.

But Hannibal doesn’t reach for him, doesn’t slide a hand between his legs. “This morning you were upset because we haven’t bonded.”

There is a line in Will’s little yellow notebook: _The Alpha determines an Omega’s worth. This is part of the test._

Will rolls onto his back. “Yeah.”

“Yet you do as I ask, without question. You say yes to me, you open for me. You trust me.”

Will runs his hands through his hair. “I went back into heat for you and I can’t even mate with you.”

Hannibal sighs. “What is it then, when you take my knot? When you beg to be mounted? When I come inside you? When I feed you breakfast? When you bring convenience store coffee into my house and I let you drink it from those horrific paper cups?”

The convenience store coffee is probably going to be the deal breaker. “An Alpha needs an Omega he can mate, Hannibal, not an obedient, over-sexed lapdog.”

“Will. Get up.”

“Hannibal—”

“Now, boy.”

Will rolls over, pushes himself off the mattress and turns, facing the bed.

“Take a pillow.”

Will does.

“Blanket.”

Will pulls a narrow wool blanket from the bed. “You’re kicking me out?”

Hannibal waits two breaths. “If you think of yourself as nothing but a dog, you can sleep on the floor at the foot of my bed.”

Will hugs the bedding to his chest. “I don’t want to sleep on the floor.”

“The dog sleeps on the floor.”

Will takes a deep breath. “Hannibal.”

“My mate sleeps in my bed. If you are not my mate, if you are not my owned Omega,if you feel you have no value because my rut has not yet presented, then you do not belong here. I am not carrying around your insecurities, Will. You have a choice. Make it.”

Tentatively Will shifts, looks at the end of Hannibal’s bed and back at the older man. He has never seen this expression before—disappointment, hurt. Carefully, he puts a knee to the bed. “I am yours,” he says.

“My Omega, my boy, my whore?”

Will covers his lap with the blanket.

“Vocalize,” Hannibal orders.

Will does. “I am your Omega, boy and whore.”

“And if you so badly wish a scar upon your neck, go find me a knife.”

All of him warms. “Hannibal.”

“I offer this once, Will.”

Will breathes, stands.

Goes to the kitchen.

#

Will returns with three things:

Hannibal’s favourite paring knife, iodine, and gauze. Hannibal does not cover the bedding, has not found towels and drop cloths.

There shouldn’t be that much blood but with Hannibal? There is often blood.

Will sits, Hannibal moves behind him, circles him, wraps a leg around him and presses a kiss to the place on his neck, over his scent. “I will do the other side, and it will be ours, and when we mate you will have a mis-matched set.”

Will nods, leans back into the other man, into his weight and strength and comfort. He closes his eyes. There is iodine, cold on his skin, the wrap of Hannibal’s hand around his neck, fingers to his collarbone.

There is command, to breathe, to still, to settle.

“Yes?”

Will nods.

“Speak up,” Hannibal reminds him because Hannibal is one for consent in all things.

“Please,” he says and Hannibal was a surgeon once.

Hannibal tilts Will’s neck. Holds him close. Digs a thumb into Will’s throat as he presses the tip of the knife into skin and then draws a slow line along the curve of Will’s neck. The blade is thin, opens him easily. Will holds in a moan, a sigh, a wince. He grits his teeth because cuts deep enough to leave scars are not the same as the ones made from paper.

“One for each of us,” Hannibal says, and begins again.

Blood flows over Will’s collarbone, over Hannibal’s fingers. Hannibal drags his thumb through the wet and marks Will’s mouth. Feeds him his own blood, his own want and his own desire. Will tastes his own heat and his scent fills the air.

Hannibal breathes in iron and salt, lapping at Will’s broken skin. Cleaning him. “If Freddie Lounds asks again if you belong to me?”

“I’ll say yes,” Will whispers, and when Hannibal wraps a strong arm around his chest, Will swears he can smell something new upon his Alpha’s skin.

 

-fin-

 

 


End file.
